The Forgotten Stories

My Own Grave

Standing over my own grave makes me feel at ease. I brought my friends to the cemetery, but they are mingling far enough away that they will not disturb me. A draft of wind thrusts the beautiful smell of flowers under my nose. Nearly a second later, my cell phone begins to ring, but I ignore it. All I want is stand over my own grave in peace.

The tombstone’s inscription reads my name. Beautiful flowers outline the perimeter and a simple quote is burned into the center. Underneath, my date of birth—January 5, 1995—rests next to me date of death—January 5, 2013. I died on the exact day that I turned eighteen.

However, I am now twenty-five; too old to be a college kid and too young to be in my athletic prime. I died seven years ago, yet I am still standing over my own grave.

My cell phone rings again, but again I ignore it. “Please leave me alone,” I think to myself. “I just want to stand over my own grave in peace.”

Soon enough, the peace is disturbed as my friends begin calling for me. “Come on!” they say. “We have to leave!”

I sigh. Must my life and death be like this? As I lay a flower over my own grave, I cannot help but wonder if death can be a truly beautiful thing.

Now I must return to life; responsibility, work, and chaos. As I begin to walk away from my own grave, my cell phone rings again. I finally answer it.